


Twitter Drabbles

by Prettyraddawg



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Cigarettes, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, Masturbation, Public Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:08:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prettyraddawg/pseuds/Prettyraddawg
Summary: A place to keep all my Twitter threads in case I get deleted. Each chapter will have its own title and own warnings.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	1. Table of Contents

**Table of Contents**

“Day of Rest”

Written: 11/24/2020

Tags: Incest, underage, pedophilia, masturbation, cigarettes

Summary: Morty wants a break. Rick battles boredom with a cig and his camera roll.

“I Can’t Find My Glasses!”

Written: 11/30/2020

Tags: Incest, underage, pedophilia, masturbation, wet dreams, mentioned character death (very brief)

Summary: Specs can’t find his glasses and enlists the help of his new Rick. Rick is tired of his bullshit.

“After”

Written: 12/6/2020

Tags: Rape, rape aftermath, referenced rape, piss (not kink related)

Summary: Morty isn’t handling the “incident” with King Jellybean very well. Rick tries to be supportive.


	2. Day of Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty wants a break. Rick battles boredom with a cig and his camera roll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Incest, underage, pedophilia, masturbation, (sort of) accidental voyeurism, pining (sort of), cigarette smoking

A day of rest... What the fuck. 

"I just want a-a-a day to myself Rick! I'm t-tired." 

If he weren't so goddamn annoyed, he might have taken a moment to appreciate how cute he looked, shifting around from foot to foot, the embodiment of nervousness. As it stood, it was just agitating him. 

A full day spent doing nothing because his twerp of a companion was 'tired.' What a fucking waste. He sent the boy off, told him he could have his day off, but he made damn sure that the boy knew he was pissed. 

He dropped himself down on the stool by his workbench and grabbed a bottle that he had left there at some point. He brought it to his lips and took a hearty swig of the bitter liquid. He pulls out some random machine to tinker with to pass time. He works on it for what feels like hours, but when he checks his watch, he finds that it hasn't even been thirty minutes yet. 

He groans in frustration and pushes away from the counter, swiveling to face the center of the room. He reaches into his lab coat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He lights up and takes a deep inhale of smoke, grimacing at the cheap Earth tobacco. If Morty weren't being such a dickhead, he could go off planet and get something half decent, but no, that was off the table. He supposes he could drag Morty out anyways, but he isn't in the mood to deal with a pissy Morty.

What is there to do? Tinkering is boring him, he doesn't have any good drugs on hand, if he gets plastered Morty will just get annoyed with him... He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his apps and landing on the photos icon. 

He taps it, perhaps hoping that nostalgia will make the time go quickly. 

But his photos aren't particularly sappy. There are no family photos, no pictures of the family dog, nothing so sweet. The first of his photos are of aliens he had been in the midst of fucking. In fact, that makes up the first several hundred pictures. 

Slowly, though, a new interest blooms. Pictures of a special someone begin to take up his storage. Brown hair, peachy skin, an obnoxious yellow t-shirt. 

The first of the photos are innocent enough; quick snapshots when the boy isn't looking. A look of awe as the boy stares out the ship's window, a little smile while he watches something on t.v., his relaxed face when he's asleep. But one particular picture displays the turning point.

Rick remembers when he took it too. He had been walking to the bathroom when he heard a whimper come from the boys room. He had paused, walked closer to the door, pressed his ear to the door, and there it was, another quiet whine. He pulled out his phone, opening the camera, and cracked the door open silently. Inside the room was a sight that had caused all of Rick's blood to rush to his dick. 

Morty sat on his bed, on his knees. He was facing the door, but his eyes were closed so tight he had no idea he had an audience. His head was tilted back just slightly, the bottom of his shirt between his teeth, revealing his chest and stomach.One hand was wrapped tightly around his leaking prick, the other playing with his chest. He pinched one of his nipples and whined. Rick snapped a picture and left, as silent as he had arrived. 

He looks at the picture and feels arousal pool in his gut, and he wishes he could go to the boy's room and tear him a new one, but this is his 'day off.' 

Rick scoffs putting the bud of the cig to his lips and taking another draw from it. He leaves it resting there and uses his newly empty hand to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his khakis. He reaches into his underwear and retrieves his semi-hard dick. He doesn't bother with lube, only uses slow and languid strokes, occasionally wiping a bit of precum down his length in order to reduce the likelihood of chafing. All the while, he stares at the photo of the boy, his face concentrated on getting off. 

He lazily fists himself to the thought of what would have happened had he barged in like he usually would've. He imagines himself fucking into the boys virgin ass, ripping him apart. He continues to watch his phone, wishing he had instead taken a video. He takes his time, wanting to draw this out for as long as possible, but eventually he gets bored of his hand, and decides to finish up. 

When he finally cums, his cigarette is burnt down to the filter, and only seven minutes have passed.


	3. I Can’t Find My Glasses!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs can’t find his glasses and enlists the help of his new Rick. Rick is tired of his bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Incest, underage, pedophilia, masturbation, wet dreams, mentioned character death (very brief)

The first thing Specs does every morning, since he was eight, is grab his glasses off his nightstand. He always puts them right next to the bizarre elephant lamp his dad got him for his sixth birthday. 

Specs has done this every single morning for four years, except on the rare occasion that he has a particularly blissful dream that he wants to indulge for just a little bit longer. 

Like this morning, for instance. 

Specs awoke with a jolt after jizzing in his pajama pants from a particularly vivid dream of his new Granpa feeling him up with the help of his old Granpa. Obviously the dream was on the bittersweet end of the spectrum, but nothing makes Specs cum harder than emotional turmoil, after all. 

So, despite being wide awake, he keeps his eyes shut, and slides his hands into his baby blue boxers.He uses his own cum as makeshift lube, and rather than bring his softening cock to an erect stance with a few strokes, he opts to insert a finger into himself. Then another. In a few minutes he's fucking himself on four fingers, sweating and mewling, and wishing it was Rick's cock. 

It only takes a few more minutes for him to cum for the second time that morning, and he allows himself a few moments of relief before finally getting his morning started. 

He sits up, wipes his hand off on his sheets, runs a clean hand through his sweaty hair.And lastly, he grabs for his glasses. 

Fumbles for his glasses. 

Squints around for his glasses. 

Where the hell are his glasses?! 

The previous night comes rushing back to him. A few beers (he's such a lightweight), and a couple rips off of Rick's bong.They had stayed up to watch a Ball Fondlers marathon together. Had he fallen asleep? His glasses must be downstairs then, probably in the living room. So, he'll just go get them. 

How hard could it be? 

Apparently pretty hard. The living room was trashed. Trying to find his glasses turned out to be like playing a game of 'Where's Waldo?' Except worse, because the eyestrain was giving him a headache. After a bit of searching, Specs caved, and made his way to the garage. He opens the door and trips into his new grandfather's workshop, nearly face planting, but righting his balance just before eating concrete. 

"U-uh, Rick? I c-c-can't find my glasses... can you, umm, help me? I-i-if you aren't too busy?" Specs stutters to the white and tan blur on the other side of the room. 

He sees Rick turn, or, he sees his blue shirt reveal itself, blurring into the white lab coat and brown khakis. But it's what Specs doesn't see that is interesting. He doesn't see the way Rick's eyes widen when he sees the boy.He doesn't see the way those same eyes rake over the boy's disheveled appearance. He doesn't see the creeping blush spread over the man's face. He doesn't see the way Rick licks his lips like a starved man before a feast. Maybe if he did, he wouldn't look so embarrassed. As it stands, he looks to the gray smudges of concrete beneath the peachy blurs of his feet. 

He tugs at the hem of his p.j. shirt, and remembers with a start that he hadn't changed clothes yet. He's still in his sweaty, cum stained pajamas. He feels his face turn beet red. Rick takes a moment to drink in the sight of his grandson, before realizing he really has become just as bad as his fellow Rick's. To look at his own kin in such a way... he shakes his head. 

Morty, Specs, looks damn good. He's got bed head, or more accurately sex hair. On top of that, he's got visible cum stains all over his clothes. Maybe that's gross (what about this isnt?) but it just leaves his cute, little grandson look thoroughly fucked. His red face, still a bit damp, doesn't hinder the effect either. So Rick takes it all in. He adds the sight to his spank bank and then shuts off any feelings that are more than familial. 

"Yeah, sure, kid. W-w-where d'you remember having them last?" 

"Oh! U-umm, in the living room," the boy squeaks in response, almost surprised at how easily Rick complied. 

Specs keeps forgetting how 'well-adjusted' his new Rick is. And isn't that the issue? How's he supposed to get his Rick to fuck him if his Rick has decent morals? 

Whatever, he needs his glasses and he's too tired to be anything but grateful for Rick's good attitude. He walks into the disaster of the living room, Rick trailing close behind. He begins looking again, not bothering with a discussion, and gets down on his hands and knees and begins rummaging through the garbage, squinting through his search. He waits to hear the rustling of Rick's own search. It doesn't come. 

He glances over his shoulder, sees that Rick is standing behind him, and he blushes. He quickly goes back to looking for his glasses, his heart racing. His search is no longer his focus, instead his attention is on the thrum of anticipation. His mind goes a mile a minute, coming up with hundreds of scenarios and fantasies. He knows that he's over reacting, this Rick is a 'good' Rick, but he can't help but dream. He bites his lip to withhold a sigh. He pushes some of the trash out of the way and leans down, pressing his chest and the side of his face to the carpet and squinting to look under the couch. 

Specs hears the telltale sound of Rick's cracking knees before he feels the hands on his hips dragging him backwards.The teen lets out a surprised squeak followed by an unabashed mewl. One of the elders hands stays on his hip, the other splays across his chest and pulls him up so that Rick's chest is flush against Specs' back. 

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" He growls.

"Wh-what do you-" the boy's question is cut off by Rick's husky voice. 

"You think I haven't noticed the way you make eyes at me? Or the way you always flauntin' your ass? You expect me to believe you were slurpin' that popsicle like a whore slurps dick just because? Really?" 

Specs doesn't respond with words, only moans throatily, rocking his hips back into Rick's. 

"You expect me to believe you just  _ lost  _ your glasses and wandered into my garage looking like a fucked out slut and begging me to help you by  _ accident _ ?" Rick grinds into Specs. 

The boy moans, almost embarrassed, but much too happy with this chain of events. 

"Well, baby, you hooked me, and now," he leans in, his lips against the shell of the teen's ear, "you're gonna get just what you want."


	4. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty isn’t handling the “incident” with King Jellybean very well. Rick tries to be supportive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Rape, rape aftermath, referenced rape, piss (not kink related)

Why is he so panicked? It's just the bathroom, just the school bathroom, he'll take a quick piss and leave. It’s not that fucking hard. 

So, why is he standing at the door, shaking like a leaf? Why can't he make himself step into that gross bathroom? 

Normally he doesn't have to use the bathroom at school. He avoids drinking so that he doesn't have to pee, but he was so thirsty this morning he chugged three glasses of orange juice. 

He's been holding it for four class periods, which means he's still got four more. It's already painful. He won't last the rest of the day, but every time he gets to the door, he panics. He stands and stares like an idiot, people shoving past him. 

Eventually, he turns and speed walks to his next class, unable to force himself into that dingy room. He reaches the classroom, takes his seat in the back, and tries to ignore his throbbing bladder. 

Class starts, but he can't hear anything. He squirms in his seat and he barely registers the strange looks his classmates shoot at him. He thinks about asking for a hall pass. 

The moment he does, though, he imagines those grimy hands roaming forcefully along his body, he imagines that sticky, slimy tongue trailing his cheek, the feeling of his face pressed into the porcelain toilet seat, the way those long fingers pulled his pants and underwear- 

No. He won't think about that. He can't think about that. 

A sharp pain in his gut has him squeezing his legs together. A whimper rises in his throat and his face reddens. Tears build in his eyes. 

He cried then too... Cried and begged and screamed for help. But it didn't matter. No one heard him. His pleas fell on deaf ears. 

He can practically feel the hot, sticky goop spilling between his thighs- no. 

No he doesn't. 

That's piss. 

He's pissing himself. He's pissing himself in the middle of class. 

The tears finally spill over his cheeks. He hears students around him gasp and giggle, he sees them point at him. Someone finally exclaims that Morty Smith has pissed himself. 

He's sent to Human Resources for spare clothes, then sent to the office to talk to the counselor. 

They call his mom. He goes home early. His mom asks him what's wrong with him. 

She sounds disgusted. She isn't the only one. 

When he gets home he crawls into his bed and cries. He cries and cries and he feels disgusting. No one talks to him. No one checks on him. They don't even call him for dinner. It isn't until the wee hours of the morning that he hears from anyone. 

It's none other than Rick. He walks in, quiet, unlike usual, then sits at the edge of his bed. He pats the boy's calf and sighs. He takes a swig from his flasks. They sit in silence, aside from the boy's sniffles. 

"I get it," Rick says finally. "It's okay to be scared sometimes, and I understand. And if you wanna know, I liquified that fucking monster. He won't hurt anyone again." 

Morty cries in earnest again, his small frame shaking. Rick takes another drink. 

"Y-y-you knew?" Morty asks in a broken voice. 

Rick nods. Morty hates him for a split second, for not telling him, but he didn't tell Rick either. He couldn't, his shame too thick. 

"Yeah, I knew. I mean, I don't know the details, but I know he... hurt you." Rick's voice waivers. "I understand," he says, barely a whisper, "I really do." 

And Morty hears the brutal honesty in him, hears the same brokenness he hears in himself. He sits up, and wraps his arms around Rick's shoulders. 

"Does it ever get easier?" Morty asks. 

"Depends on what you mean by easier. It doesn't hurt as bad, but it will never go away. And it hits you out of nowhere. You'll be fine one second, and then it all comes rushing back out of nowhere. But I'll be here, okay? Rick and Morty, against the world." 

Morty nods.

"Rick and Morty, forever."


End file.
